


Ghosts Of Things To Come

by gerty_3000



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Conflict, Disassociation, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Gratuitous Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentally Ill Characters, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character, Violence, Vomit, prison rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7700890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerty_3000/pseuds/gerty_3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prelude</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Prelude

Hoxton was well aware that he's a jealous person. Being raised alongside three other boys lead him to be rather comptetitive over everything; toys, first servings in meals, parent's attention... The want to be better than his siblings, to ensure that he triumphed over everyone around him was his main goal in life, from day one. He certainly didn't aspire to be the best in _everything,_ just whatever caught his eye. 

He likes to think of himself as the best of the four in his crew. Not in an arrogant or mean way, but just as a matter-of-fact. He was, without a doubt, the best. Not withstanding the fact that he had been set on fire and separated from his gang, essentially abandoned, and turned over to the police just as he thought he was finally out of _that_ sticky situation. But nevermind that. He would have loved to establish himself in prison, but his fame also lead to many people with a vendetta - most people, Hoxton didn't even know! And yet, here they were, going out of their way to make his life a living hell.

This was one of the better days, though. Almost a full week out of solitary confinement, congregating once more with the general population, enriching himself with a group of uncaring inmates while they watched a news broadcast. 

For uncaring, however, there sure were a few people who turned towards Hoxton with a knowing smirk when the newest report was of a robbery. He scoffed, rolling his eyes, at the snickering group. Of course, being an international terrorist and thief had it's perks, but it also had it's downsides. Nearly _everyone_ knew about him, even people who couldn't give less of a damn. He tried to focus on the program with a balance of simultaneous disinterest and concern, the right corner of his mouth quirking downwards at the seeming importance of the caster's words. The volume was too low to hear correctly, and he wasn't about to ask for the remote, but the picture that soon flashed up was all Hoxton needed for his blood pressure to spike. Of course he recognized the group on TV, not even needing to dedicate more than half a second of staring at the blurry cellphone picture before identifying them. Chains, Dallas, Wolf, and... 

Himself.

His own mask was there, blue suit on a stockier frame, as so obviously not him as whatever they were trying to achieve. His mask. _His_ mask was on someone else, with _his_ crew. 

He had been replaced. 

Hoxton was unrivaled in a lot of things. His explosive temper was one of them. With a furious yell, unintelligible curse words spilling out of him before he even had time to process them, he flipped the table he was sitting at and stormed out of the recreational room, and earned himself three more days in solitary confinement for his violent outburst.

Replaced! **Replaced!**

Locked in the small room on his small bed, already well antiquated with his surroundings, he seethed as he resisted the boiling urge inside him to break the bones in his hands by pounding against the wall in his rage. 

_**Replaced!** _

Like a light switch being flipped on, he hated that stranger with all his entirety. He hated his former crew, he hated the nerve, the _audacity_ of them! He expected for them to continue heisting, yes, after an appropriate mourning period. He expected them to be plotting some sort of escape. He expected so much, he hoped, he liked to say he knew the three well enough to _know_ that they wouldn't do something as treacherous as replacing him.

And yet, there he was. Hoxton The Second, apparently. Hot tears streamed down his face as he hissed with anger. The very idea of it made his guts churn, his expression one of a marred grimace, and with a gush of emotion he practically wailed in anger and distress, pushing out the crushing silence of his tiny room.


	2. Axe To Grind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoxton didn't think he could break into the _FBI headquarters_ without repercussions, did he?

Everyone had maybe seven minutes for Chains to check and clean wounds, re-bandage what was already hastily taken care of, and distribute painkillers before hell broke loose. Hoxton had left for a moment to retrieve the server from the van while everyone else was being patched up. When he returned, there was silence that had descended on the room, save only for Hoxton’s labored breathing as he hefted the weighty thing down the stairs to the technological safe haven that was their basement.

When he returned, there were four pairs of eyes on him, and the assumed stare of Bain from the not-so-subtle cameras placed in the main room. If it weren’t for how the fugitive was breathing, shifting awkwardly at the top of the stairs and looking from one man to the other, a pin drop could have been heard. Just as Hoxton opened his mouth to speak, the silence was broken.

“Did you ever think that your little stunt could have gotten all of us fucking _killed?!”_ Dallas’ voice rang out loud inside the room. Everyone flinched, all looking at Dallas as if he’d grown a third head. Chains, Wolf, and Houston all stood up and left, immediately excusing themselves to sit in their respective rooms, listening intently to the proceeding conversation.

Hoxton didn’t say anything, standing there with a grimace on his face, so bewildered by the outburst, and yet, having known it would come. He didn’t respond, simply waiting for Dallas to continue.

And continue he did:

“Do you know how much risk was involved in that?! Do you know how much danger you put all of us in?!” His voice was too loud, hands balled in fists. Really, really unhappy with the predicament, and while Hoxton understood the reasoning behind Dallas’ anger, all of his rational argumentative skills flew out the window at the prospect of being talked down to.

All of the anger, betrayal, hatred... All of his indignation came out of him like an atomic bomb finally exploding, and he nearly stamped his foot to emphasize his words.

“Two years, Dallas! For two fucking years!”

A stunned silence at the response - Dallas’ eyes were wide and his jaw half-open in the middle of an attempt to continue, the words stolen from his mouth by Hoxton’s statement. They stared at each other for a moment before Hoxton spoke up again.

“You left me there for TWO! YEARS!” Hoxton slammed his fist against the wall beside him, as if to emphasize his point. Despite the adrenaline of shouting and confrontation, however, the realization that hitting plaster really hurt came over him, and he trembled as he shook out his left hand, trying to alleviate the sharp ache that radiated up his arm. He took a deep breath, shaking with anger and pain.

“How could you do that to me?! Did you even think of how I felt? I was replaced! Replaced!” Voice an octave higher. Cracks in the sound, the second syllable of ‘replaced’, a high pitched squeak that comes out, indignant, petulant, _hurt._

“How quickly did you fill the spot, huh? How-”

His voice is cut off by a solid smack, evidently hard enough that it sends the other man sprawling, followed by a loud thud and the ‘oof’ of air rushing out of Hoxton’s lungs. Silence descended on the safehouse for only seven seconds, enough that the three other men cast weary, worried glances between each other before returning to the closed door behind them.

“Nice. Real fuckin’ nice, Nate.” Hoxton growled in a spiteful tone. With the shuffling sound of fabric and feet against floor, he stands up, and there’s a terse moment before a crunch and half-shout of pain resounds from the older man, as the fugitive’s fist collides with skin, knuckles against cheek-bone. Hitting the wall hurt, without much satisfaction. But hitting Dallas with all the force of his rage and resentment behind it was so satisfying, he barely felt the agony of striking something as hard as bone.

The next few seconds are a whirl of slurs and movement; Dallas lashing out blindly, scratching, reaching for Hoxton’s right thigh to dig fingers in to the fresh hole caused by rebar. Hoxton blindly kicks out before hitting the ground again, howling in pain.

Laying on the floor was disorienting for him, though, it may be the facial trauma and heated agony in his right leg that’s making Hoxton’s head spin. He stayed still, groaning softly and watching the stars dance behind his eyelids, picking up at the edge of his hearing the sound of Dallas’ footsteps. He’s not happy, but then again, who would be, given their arguing. Hoxton grumbled incoherently and attempted to wipe away the blood from his face, mopping at scratches now embedded in the deep scar tissue. He grimaces at the sting of sweat-salt against open wounds, and the sheer wetness beneath his clammy fingertips.

“Never figured you fought like a little fuckin’ girl, Dallas.” He muttered, referencing the fact that Dallas _scratched him,_ of all fighting tactics, as he tried to blink away the brightness. Now that he was on the floor, and had a minute for the adrenaline to fade, he assesses the damage to himself. The slap wasn’t what hurt, at least, the hurt didn’t take precedence over the four ragged lines clawed into his cheek and brow, and the ache in the now leaking hole in his leg.

Dallas just huffed, stepping closer, hovering over the prostrate Englishman with a foot to either side of his ribs. Hoxton, in his pained pseudo-delirium, reached up with a bloody hand and grazed his fingers over Dallas’ leg, painting the cloth crimson. The fugitive’s fingers curled in a feeble attempt to seek purchase of the plaid fabric, and the other Heister made no attempts to remedy the now stained situation. He felt only pity for the person he once called his best friend.

“Never figured you _yelled_ like a little fucking girl.” Dallas mocked, a parody of Hoxton’s statement, as he crouched down, then sat upen the center of his chest, legs tucked underneath him, so his weight is evenly distributed over his own knees, and Hoxton’s sternum. He sneered down at his old friend, felt all the fury that flooded him from the petulance seep out as he stared down at the writhing man. It made his heart ache. He had missed Hoxton so much, he did everything he could, (at least, that’s what he told himself), to try and make amends for leaving him behind. He sighed softly, reaching down and wiping away the blood that leaked from the four lines upon Hoxton’s face, holding him in a mockery of a caress.

“Are you gonna play nice?”

Hoxton carefully opened his eyes, blinking away the involuntary tears that had formed from the stinging pain of being scratched and poked. He stared up at Dallas, frowning at the other man. He worked his jaw for a second, as if to speak... and spat on Dallas’ face.

All of the ire that had left the mastermind came back faster than it had drained from him, and he let out an incoherent shout as his blood-slicked hands left Hoxton’s cheeks, and went to his throat. His fingers wrapped tight, without remorse, squeezing as tight as he could. He wanted to see that smug look wiped off of Hoxton’s face, wanted to see his lips turn blue and his eyes roll upwards and-

There was a loud bang that jolted Dallas; the door being slammed open from the rest of the crew coming in with haste, prompted by the sudden silence.

“Guys!! Break it the fuck up!” At the edge of their hearing, they could hear Houston shouting at them. Apparently they had been fighting for long enough, and behind Houston, was Chains approaching too. Wolf stood nervously at the edge of the room, grimacing at the sight, wanting to help but staying back as Houston and Chains both yanked Dallas off of the scrawnier man beneath him. Hoxton immediately rolled onto his side, coughing and wheezing and grasping his throat.

“The Dentist did **not** arrange Hoxton’s breakout just so you could fucking murder him!” Chains yelled, holding Dallas tight, even though the crew’s mastermind was not struggling.

Hoxton could hear, but didn’t entirely register, left on the floor to attempt to breathe against the swelling caused by Dallas. Wolf saw this as his chance to reach out to Hoxton; he timidly stepped forward to the man, kneeling beside him and trying to carefully sit him up to breathe easier. The only reason Hoxton didn’t resist was because he was still so focused on not suffocating on his own oxygen.

“Fuck you... fuck you...” He huffed, rubbing at the hand-prints on his neck, shaking his head as Wolf gave his back a few tender pats. “You fucking twat. All of you. You’re all... fuckin’ useless.”

He would have shoved the man beside him if it weren’t for how lightheaded he was. He did, however, press hard on Wolf’s shoulder as he stood with great effort. Wolf, in all his love for Hoxton, assisted anyways, helping Hoxton stand, despite being pushed away.

The moment the fugitive was on both feet, he staggered away with an exaggerated limp, leaving the ‘living room’ that was the front room of the safehouse. He had picked a hallway at random and went in to the first open door he saw, which lead to the bathroom, much to his delight at the prospect of a locked door. He slammed it shut behind him, following it close with the audible click of a lock being turned.

There was a long pause as the four men stood in the living room, all of them assessing the disaster that just had just played out before them.

"Good job.” Houston said, voice laden with apathy.

Dallas scoffed, and walked off towards his own room, ready to be done with the issue for the night. Wolf pouted for a moment, glancing between Houston, Chains, and the back of Dallas’ head before he, too, decided to chill out in his room for a while; for all how he wanted to help Hoxton and try to cheer him up, he knew the man well, and knew what would happen if he prodded too early. Houston simply sat down on the nearest couch, and turned on the TV to zone out. Chains, knowing how Hoxton limped and bled, would need to be treated, and sooner, rather than later.

With the overall vibe of a tired mother trying to look after her awful children, Chains retrieved the medical pack that had already been strewn open to treat cuts and knicks on the other three, and went to the bathroom.

“Hoxton. Open up.” He said, gruffly. He figured he would give Hoxton five seconds to respond before threats of breaking the door down would have to come out. Thankfully, though, he could hear the reluctant movement of the wounded man inside, and the door unlocking. It creaked open just far enough for the fugitive to peek out with one eye, which darted to-and-fro over Chains’ shoulder, an attempt to ensure that there was no one else with him, before he opened the door for him to come in, and started to strip his clothes. He knew the procedure well - no sense in acting demure when it came to patching things up.

Preoccupied with pulling out the necessary components, Chains didn’t see Hoxton stripping down, didn’t really feel the need to pay attention to him stripping out of his dirty orange jumpsuit or the long-sleeve shirt beneath. So when he looked up, holding thread-and-needle in one hand, and a bottle of peroxide in the other, he dropped both at the sight of Hoxton in his underwear.

“Christ in heaven!” He shouted in surprise, eyes wide at the sight of his old friend. Hoxton sneered, crossing his arms over his chest.

He was practically cadaverous: his ribs and hips stuck out in jutting points, his stomach shrunken in the hollow of his gut. The bulbs of his shoulders stuck out awkwardly, sharp and thin. Bruises and strange scars peppered his torso, and the combat medic didn’t even want to acknowledge the gnarled burns that twisted over his ribcage, pulling with every inhale. His joints were odd points upon withered muscle, and Hoxton huffed with a childish noise. He was well aware of how he looked, and Chains’ response didn’t exactly raise his self esteem. 

“Can we please move this along?” He said, eyebrow raised and the right side of his mouth pulled in a snarl. It pulled the other man out of his temporary trance, and he picked up his supplies with haste, directing Hoxton to sit on the edge of the bath-tub. He could only think about what a mess this man was, wonder (with a pang of guilt and shame) if it was even worth it to rescue him, wonder about what kind of fucked up things the fugitive had to go through in his two years. His hands ghosted over old scars of wounds that clearly didn’t heal right, but focused on the ones from their escapade today.

It was silent and tense, Hoxton refusing to speak out of principle, and Chains preferring to focus on the work than having to make awkward conversation about the origins of the spatula-shaped brand on his right forearm, or the cigarette burns on the backs of his hands, the lines of razor cuts on his thighs or the gash in his stomach or the fact that he only had one nipple because the left upper side of his torso was so completely consumed by flame and exacerbated by chemicals thrown on him.

When Chains finished, Hoxton wasted no time in standing up. He left the bloodied jumpsuit and shirt discarded on the floor of the bathroom, disregarding them completely as he walked away, and towards the nearest horizontal surface to collapse on. He was sure that there was a room was for him, specifically, but renovations on the safehouse were evidently still in progress. He really did not want to have to share a room with a single person in the house.

Hoxton found a cot set up in the corner with a sleeping bag and pillow. Not even bothering to ask whom it belonged to, the fugitive collapsed upon the cot, tugging the soft material over him and falling asleep with such speed that, if he were coherent, it would have surprised him.


	3. After The End

At around 6 in the morning, Hoxton was waking up. He already felt displeasure and indignation at the prompting of the sun, glaring blearily at the warm shafts of light that shimmered romantically on him. He felt like he hadn’t slept in years, and truthfully, in a certain metaphorical way, he hadn’t. The cot was no huge improvement, but it was certainly a miraculous step up from the thin shitpissvomit stained bedding that laid haphazardly on a metal frame in his cell. At the memory of the torturous bed, and at the cot he had collapsed on the night previous, it took Hoxton more than a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t on the nylon surface of a cot, nor was he covered by the puffy lightness of a sleeping bag dragged over him.

In a panic, he sat up too quickly, and nearly yowled in pain as the pillow his head was against came with him; glued to the side of his face with the dried blood of the scratches inflicted by his old friend last night. He held the pillow against his head, too scared to rip it off just yet, and surveyed his surroundings. The perfect wake up to the perfect night - being slapped around followed by the terror of the idea that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. His chest heaved with panic, and he scrambled to leave the bed, clutching at the soft material to ensure it wasn’t yanked away by gravity. Of course, the moment he tried to move his right leg, the sharp burst of agony prompted him to sit still. Right. Again, with the suppressed feelings rushing back, and he recalled the rebar and fingers that impaled him. The fugitive grimaced at the memory, rubbing half-heartedly at the site of stabbing before grabbing his leg by the knee and roughly swinging it over the edge of the bed. Fuck his own body, he needed to take a piss, and could pridefully ignore the burst of fiery pain that shot all up and down the limb. The idea that this was like ripping off a bandaid popped into his mind, and with that thought, he yanked at the pillow, tears springing to his eyes at the sharp pain of yanking at dried scabs. It did come off quickly, though, and he cast aside the fluffy pillow as if it were the most offensive object he'd ever come in contact with.

He struggled to stand, determined to use the restroom on his own. He already had to deal with the humiliation of a catheter and bed-pan and snickering doctors who changed his gown because he was too wounded to do it himself, handcuffed to the bed and weak with morphine and tissue damage. He wasn’t about to deal with the rage and shame that came with requesting help to urinate, especially not from his friends. Former friends. What, exactly, did he consider the three (plus one) that populated the rest of the safehouse? He had all the time he could possibly need in Hazelton, it seemed, but all his thoughts were dedicated to hatred, and the potential of escape. He knew _exactly_ what he considered 'Houston', of the four. An absolute nobody, he was only in because Dallas was giving his little brother a hand-out. Of course it was a damn traitorous thing to do, but Hoxton could be reasonable. He smiled smugly to himself, filled with a sense of self-superiority despite the pain, as he attempted to lift himself up, at the ideology of him being a forgiving and understanding person. Sure, the little snot was running around in _his_ mask. Old mask. He was running around in his _old_ mask, and spent two damn years pretending to be him. 

Surely that was just... necessity. He wasn't sure necessity of what-for, though. The fugitive pursed his lips as he forced himself on his feet with a burst of strength, wincing at the pain that shot up to his hip and down to his knee as he put weight on the barely healed hole in his thigh. He decided that he was thinking too much about it, and if he spent any longer time on the subject that he'd just work himself into a screaming tizzy (and he did enough of screaming at Hazelton- he shuddered at even the vague memory) and focused on the task at hand: draining his bladder into an appropriate receptacle. Once he was upright, it wasn't too hard to move, thankfully. Grasping at the bloody bandages wrapped tightly around his leg, he hobbled his way towards the door, keeping his mind stubbornly clear of any irritation. In Hazelton, despite the constant legal tortures, he had been scheduled to visit a therapist once every week, and despite his complete silence during every meeting, the therapist still spoke, and threw out some... begrudgingly useful methods at keeping calm. 

Reaching the door, he counted to ten in his head and opened it. He hadn't looked at the clock (was there even one provided in his room? the safehouse had seemed to be pretty bareboned from his very brief survey of it, especially in what he decided was his room now, given that he was sleeping in it) but could only assume it was either very early in the morning, or very late. His biological clock was very stubbornly set to wake himself up at 6am every morning, no matter how poorly he slept the night before, but the sunlight seemed to hint at later in the day. He hated to admit it, but he actually forgot the general wakeup times of his fellow Heisters. Not like he'd memorized them, but at least before his incarceration, he had the knowledge of when would be a good time, and a bad time, to text or call his partners. There was a bitter pang in his chest at the memory, and his lack thereof, making him sigh roughly as he jerked the door open. Whatever. It didn't matter if they were awake yet or not, it wasn't like he wanted to speak to them anyways. 

Much to his relief (or perhaps his chagrin) there didn't seem to be anyone awake, yet. He stood in the empty hallway for a few minutes, staring with a half-frown at the warm light that filtered through boarded up windows, and simply stood. The weight on his right leg was hell, but he ignored it, simply taking in the sight and feeling of being inside a safehouse again. Before his imprisonment, they tended to migrate safehouses- though it usually depended on where the heist was. Sometimes they would hunker down in an apartment being rented by one of the four, one that wasn't actually occupied, but being paid for by a fictional tenant. Sometimes it would be a hotel, nothing too luxurious, but not too shabby either. They were, after all, multi-millionaires. A far cry from the shitty situations all but Wolf had come from. Hoxton squatting in abandoned houses and stores, Chains in foster homes and halfway houses, and Dallas with the briefly alluded abusive stepfather. It dawned on Hoxton in that moment that Houston was never mentioned in their exposits.

In the beginning, the shared rule between the four (five, counting Bain) was to not get close. Not reveal too much about each other. Not get attached. By the first year of heisting together, all of their thin facades of uncaring were thrown out the window. 

Thick as thieves. 

Hoxton scoffed at the phrase. Absolute rubbish, the idea. 

Thick as thieves means you don't leave your partner behind to burn. _Thick as thieves means you don't replace him weeks after he's left for dead in a jail cell. **Thick as thiev-**_

He drew in a sharp breath and steeled himself for movement, walking down the hallway and peering into cracked open doorways until he saw what resembled a bathroom. Thank god there were multiple bathrooms in the house. He imagined he would probably set the place on fire if someone were using the toilet at the same time he needed to, and he had to _wait_ for it to be free. The fugitive made his way inside, very carefully closing the door and using the toilet, savoring the feeling of relieving his bladder. Afterwards, he shucked his suddenly grimy feeling underwear off, staring with disdain at the state-issued briefs that sat sadly on the bathroom floor. He would have gladly burned the things in a heartbeat if he had the means to. He tried not to dwell too much on the thought as he turned the shower on, tugging the curtain in place and deigning to glance at himself in the mirror.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

He knew what to expect- as shitty as the housing conditions in Hazelton were, they didn't forbid mirrors. Yet, despite this knowledge beforehand, he still grimaced at his reflection, as if surprised by the visage presented to him. He hated how the scars twisted across his skin like the world's most fucked up roadmap. He hated the way his ribs and hips jutted out from his torso like grotesque knives, all sharp angles and thin skin. He ran his hand over his collarbones, sneering at protruding features. What a sad, sad sight he was. Steam from the hot shower began to spill over the top of the curtains and into the room, and that was his cue to stop disdainfully viewing himself. Without much regret, he stepped away from the mirror, sticking his hand into the scalding water to adjust the temperature to something slightly less first-degree-burn inducing, and stepped inside. The hot water was a shock to his system, despite his fiddling with. There wasn't hot water allowed in Hazelton; not after, in another prison, guards had boiled an inmate alive with it. The most the inmates were allowed was lukewarm water, barely above room temperature. He supposed he had to be grateful for that fact- last thing he wanted was the same scenario happening to himself in there, with how many enemies he'd seemed to have made. 

He stood underneath the hot spray for god knows how long. He wasn't exactly timing himself, and the water temperature didn't change without his say-so. Regardless of the shabby, in-the-middle-of-renovations appearance of their large dwelling, they still prioritized a high quality water heater, which Hoxton was grateful for, despite all his other hangups about the crew. He supposed that some things could be forgiven in exchange for the heaven-send that was the hot water pouring down on him. He stood prone under the spray, eyes closed, short hair plastered to his forehead, for nearly an hour, when both his legs were feeling numb and his fingertips were pruned. He quickly scrubbed himself down with soap and shampoo, relishing the feeling of suds that didn't irritate his skin, and exited the shower, toweling off quickly. Hoxton had an inkling of the time that went by, and feared that any one of the other inhabitants had awoken. God knew Bain must have been incredibly eager to spy on them via the cameras. He wrapped the towel around his waist, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the nasty underwear left on the floor, and braced himself for the possibility of one of the other heisters to be awake outside.

The same relief he felt when he left his bedroom was not felt when he left the bathroom. Steam billowed out into the hallway, and as he risked a cautious glance to his left and right, it revealed that all tenants had awoken. Damn. And here he was thinking his luck would last forever. He sighed, clutching the towel to his hips, and quickly hobbling his way back to his bedroom. Maybe no one would have noticed his door left open, or the shower running. Even as the thought briefly flashed in his psyche, he nearly physically kicked himself. It was as obvious as the rising sun! He huffed as he slipped into his bedroom and quietly closed the door, knowing it was a futile effort. He barely got back to the bed before there was a knocking behind him. Hoxton had to breathe in deep three times to restrain the urge to scream. He wanted to pat himself on the back for his fantastic control as he indeed did not scream, but instead sat himself on the edge of his bed, tugging the blanket over his legs to ensure he was a little more modest than usual. Sure, before, he had the confidence to proudly strut around the safehouse, or any other house for that matter, naked as the day he was born.

But that was then, and this is now.

"Come in." He said, sounding much more hoarse than he expected. Right. Yesterday was a lot of shouting and panicked breathing. Of course that would put strain on his vocal cords. He rolled his eyes at the wheezy quality of his voice, clearing his throat and repeating himself.

None other than Dallas was the one to open the door, and peek his head through the crack, like the world's shittiest concerned parent. Immediately, Hoxton felt bile churn in his stomach at the sight of his friend's stupidly worried face. 

"I said come in, don't just stare at me." He grumbled, his unstable mood quickly stabilizing to the feeling of disdain and disgust. Every hateful thought intrusively made themselves known once again when Dallas entered. The mastermind clearly took the invitation inside as an invitation to make himself at home, too familiar, too intimate for how many walls Hoxton had put up, as Dallas walked to the bed and sat down beside the younger man. 

Hoxton could practically feel his skin buzzing with anger, and it took every ounce of well-tampered restriction to keep from outwardly sneering, and even more to keep from socking Dallas in the jaw. 

"What. Do you want?" He asked through clenched teeth- the tightening of his jaw only served to remind him of the still-healing scratches on his cheek. He was sure they reminded Dallas, as well, judging by the way his hopeful expression sank. 

"I wanted to... apologize." 

Hoxton didn't respond. The phrase set off every single one of the self-calming techniques that hack therapist taught him.

"For... our fight last night." Dallas said, swallowing hard, and looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. It wasn't entirely because he considered himself guiltless, far from it. But it was so hard to apologize. So hard to acknowledge any of what Hoxton had gone through must have been entirely his fault. He wanted to bury the hatchet without having to bring up the hatched in the first place. 

There was silence between them, after the seemingly painfully pushed out words, and to Hoxton's horror, that was the gist of the apology. Nothing more. Dallas squirmed, feeling incredinbly uncomfortable, and Hoxton swore if he were any more stunned, his jaw would have dropped to the floor. Long seconds continued to pass as the fugitive stared with wide eyes at his partner, all rage and indignation bubbling under his skin and he wanted with every ounce of his being to strangle the other man to death right then and there. 

"You want to apologize... for our fight last night..." He said, slowly, sounding the words out, enunciating them, really letting them hang in the air between them. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, very clearly trying to keep a hold of himself. "And nothing else? Anything else that could _possibly_ be on your mind?" 

A guilty look crossed Dallas' features, and every thing he wanted to say, every apology, every plea for forgiveness, died on his tongue, left choking in his throat. He was locking up, guilt and despair over everything that his friend, his ~lover~ had gone through, knowing it was his fault. He could practically feel his throat constricting on the attempts to speak, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times in a useless effort. It only served to anger Hoxton, who never really understood the sort of anxiety that Dallas felt when confronted by this sort of thing. 

"Get out. Get out, right now." He hissed, and if he weren't clad in only a towel, if he weren't so emaciated, if he weren't, if he weren't, if he weren't... he would have physically assaulted his friend. He was practically trembling in his rage. What a sad, pathetic effort the heister had made! Barely even constituted as that! He wanted to smack him, but Dallas was quick to respond, quick to scramble to his feet, still silent, but mouth still gaping like a fish out of water, all his words dying before they could begin.

It took the time to reach the door before he could manage to say anything, and he already felt that it was too late. Standing with his back to Hoxton and his hand on the doorknob, he could barely choke out the words, "Please forgive me." 

The tense quiet between them was nearly crushing. The mastermind had closed his eyes, expression frozen in a pained grimace as he awaited the response.

"No. I won't. I never will. You lost your chance..." Was what Dallas earned for his trouble. "Get out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dallas is supposed to be portrayed as on the ASD with Aspergers leaning, which is why he locks up and goes nonvocal


End file.
